


Most Intimate Footing

by Mackaley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Coming In Pants, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Foot Jobs, M/M, Shoe Kink, Stockings, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25783834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackaley/pseuds/Mackaley
Summary: “It wasn’t just theshoes, you fiend. It was you… playing footsie with me at dinner!Teasingme and being absolutely inappropriate and--fuck.”Crowley slides his foot over his hard length and rests it there before pressing down. The gentle pressure is exquisite and he feels himself get harder as he rocks his hips into the arch of Crowley’s foot.“Oh dear,” he mutters. “I think that’s actually quite nice.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 215





	Most Intimate Footing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/gifts).



> For my lovely friend who made a joke that you could come to me and say “I quite fancy reading something with wings and shoes and dry-humping and an historically accurate regency dinner party” and I would be able to find it for you. Well, that fic doesn’t exist. Until now. 
> 
> Are you happy, Nogz? That you’ve made me write feet stuff? 
> 
> Title is very bastardized from Pride & Prejudice. Sorry, Jane Austen.

The best part about being a member of a historical appreciation society is, of course, the opportunity to break out the many, many articles of clothing that have been languishing at the back of Aziraphale’s miraculously-expanded closet. The first thing he did when he received Sumalee’s invitation to her annual Regency dinner party was to send a cordial, hand-written reply with the “and guest” box checked off. The second thing he did was ask Crowley over lunch to accompany him. He knew the demon would grumble and complain and ultimately acquiesce to his request no matter the medium of the question, but he always found a well-timed pout and look through his lashes helped the whole affair go more quickly.

Now, Aziraphale stands in front of his full-length mirror, thick fingers smoothing over his cream waistcoat and tugging at his cornflower blue coat as he admires his reflection. He’s always liked this era’s trousers; they accentuate his shapely calves well. The style is more modern than what he would have worn at the actual time, but he figures that probably says more about him than anything else. 

Besides, Sumalee’s the only one he’s found that can perfectly recreate the tea cakes from the early 19th century he loves so much and he’d be remiss if he ruined that relationship by wearing anything less than period-accurate.

“Angel!” Crowley’s voice filters in from the ground floor and Aziraphale can’t help but smile. “I’m here for this night of torment you’ve insisted on putting me through!”

“Just a moment!” he calls back, and adjusts his tartan cravat, places his top hat on his head, and gives himself a final quick nod in the mirror before heading down the stairs. Crowley stands in the center of the bookshop, hip cocked with his mobile in his hand, wearing a red dress so dark it almost looks black. His hair is longer, pinned up simply with a silver headband, and loose ringlets frame his severe jaw. Aziraphale’s eyes trail lower to his feet and catch a pop of bright red as Crowley’s pointed slippers peek out from under the hem. 

“Darling, look at you.” Crowley looks up and smiles as he shoves his phone in the tasseled bag hanging from his wrist. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting the dress, but you’re absolutely stunning.” 

He crosses over to Crowley and settles his arms around his neck and Crowley’s hands immediately wrap around his waist.

“I hated every outfit I conjured and decided to say fuck it. Thought you wouldn’t mind.” He tucks his hands under Aziraphale’s coat and runs them along his waistband. “I was trying to remember on the way over if we ever saw each other during this period, but I’d remember your arse in these trousers.” He squeezes the plush flesh under his hands and Aziraphale squeaks and bucks forward. He swats Crowley’s arm as the demon laughs. 

“You’re a menace. Come now, I don’t want to keep our hosts waiting.”

They arrive at the hall where the party is being hosted and mingle for several minutes until a high-pitched shriek interrupts their conversation. 

“Aziraphale!” A short woman with an olive complexion rushes up to him and nearly bowls him over with a hug before stopping in her tracks and curtseying. Aziraphale nods politely and then takes her gloved hands in his.

“Sumalee, dear, this soiree is beautiful. You’ve always had such an eye for accuracy.”

“Well, I should hope so. This is my eighth year doing this.” She waves her hand at the decor around them. She turns towards Crowley and looks at him with admiration. “Oh, Crowley, what a lovely dress. Who made it?” She runs her hand along Crowley’s sleeve to examine the stitching and he glares at Aziraphale before turning back to their host and smiling so wide it looks like a grimace.

“Made it myself.” She shoots an impressed look at him and steps back. 

“I didn’t realize you were so talented at costuming and stitching. Aziraphale talks about you constantly, of course--” Aziraphale blushes and fiddles with his waistcoat. “--But he never mentioned your skill. You should consider joining the Historical Society.”

Crowley’s blank smile grows impossibly wider. “Nah, not really my scene. Do you have wine?”

Sumalee gestures across the room and Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s arm before departing. Aziraphale looks at her sheepishly. 

“I apologize for his behavior. Would you believe he doesn’t want to be here?” They chuckle and she pats his arm in sympathy. 

“You’re fine. I’m sure Jeremy’s skulking around here somewhere as well. Actually, I should go look for him. Dinner’s in about twenty minutes, so enjoy yourself until then.” She sweeps away in a flash of teal and Aziraphale turns to spot Crowley drinking deep from a glass in the corner. He joins the demon against the wall and accepts the second wine glass in Crowley’s hand.

“You could be polite,” he says and takes a sip from the wine, far too dry for his taste.

“That was polite! Do you want to see me be impolite?”

Aziraphale sniffs and takes another sip of wine, scrunching his nose as it washes over his tongue. They stand in silence for a few moments, watching the rest of the guests mingle, and Aziraphale takes Crowley’s free hand and squeezes it.

“Thank you for coming tonight, darling, and for dressing up. It means a lot to me.”

“You know I’d do anything you ask.” 

His heart warms his body through and he looks down, interlaces their fingers. “Yes, I know. But still. I love you. Thank you for indulging me.”

Crowley nudges his foot against Aziraphale’s, and it’s the first time he’s gotten a good look at the shoes the demon is wearing. The silk is a bright, pure red that gleams in the lamplight and provides a sharp contrast to the dark fabric of the dress. The heel is low, lower than Crowley’s usual everyday boots, and the toe tapers to a fine point. But along the expanse of the shoe, there is intricate black stitching and embroidery of snakes winding their way towards the toe. Crowley’s lanky feet and bony ankles seem almost… elegant in the footwear and he finds himself unable to look away.

Crowley taps his shoe again and he finally looks up to meet Crowley’s gaze through his sunglasses. “I love you too, angel.” He takes another deep sip of wine and sighs, releasing Aziraphale’s hand and gesturing around the room. “Please tell me dinner is starting soon. There’s always too many courses and then the _dancing_. Spare me the dancing, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale raises his own glass and the liquid barely passes his lips before he remembers that actually, he _really_ hates this wine, and sets the glass down firmly on a table, banishing it from his thoughts. “You know neither of us can dance. Well, I can dance the gavotte but that came into fashion _decades_ after--”

“I can dance.”

“My darling, I adore you, and you are talented at so many things, but dancing is not one of them and it’s time that you accept it. _I’ve_ accepted it.”

“You’ve accepted that I’m bad at dancing?”

“I’ve accepted that _I’m_ bad at dancing. You are as well. These are facts we must accept about ourselves.”

Crowley mocks him low under his breath and grumbles. “Get some Donna Summer in here and I’ll show you how good I am at dancing.”

“Yes, I’m quite familiar with your discotheque music, Crowley. Thank goodness we won’t be hearing it tonight.”

They bicker until their host announces that dinner will be served imminently. As they shuffle to the dining room, Aziraphale laces their fingers together again and kisses the back of Crowley’s hand. He pretends not to notice the faint blush on the demon’s cheeks or the smile at his lips.

Dinner is a delicious and long affair, and he can’t help the noise that escapes him at the first spoonful of trifle. He lets the sweet and tart cream and raspberry jam linger on his tongue before swallowing it down and digging in to another bite. His second taste garners a startled moan as he feels the tip of Crowley’s shoe circle methodically around the jut of his ankle through his thin sock. He tries to ignore the frisson skirting along his skin and centering in his groin as he swallows the second bite.

He reaches for a third, but Crowley’s shoe moves higher along his calf, dragging the hem of his trousers in its wake. He can feel the embroidered snakes rub through the fabric and set his nerves alight. He places the spoon down before he can eat any more and reaches quickly for his napkin, holding it in front of his mouth, and attempts to appear nonchalant as Crowley rubs his foot up and down, wraps around his leg to reach the other side of his calf. His skin feels too tight and his toes curl in his shoes and he feels, somehow, aroused in the very soles of his feet. 

Aziraphale whimpers into his napkin before darting a look at Crowley who isn’t even _looking_ at him. He’s just toying with his food and his lips twist in a smirk. 

“This is _ha_ -hardly appropriate,” he whispers, pointedly ignoring his voice breaking as Crowley’s attentions turn back to his ankle. 

“When have I ever cared about propriety, angel?” Crowley murmurs back, but removes his foot all the same and Aziraphale feels the loss of it immediately. He turns back to his dessert and wills his half-hard erection away.

After dinner is dancing and conversation and Crowley steals a bottle of port away for them to share privately in the corner. Crowley rests his arm across Aziraphale’s shoulder and the angel leans into his side, places his hand on his knee as they sit in companionable silence. Crowley sways his foot in time with the music and Aziraphale is mesmerized by the movement and the memory of that red shoe teasing him at dinner. He shivers and presses a lingering kiss to Crowley’s cheek.

“Do you want to leave?” 

Crowley faces him, rubs their noses together briefly. “Nah, I know you want to stay.” Aziraphale shakes his head.

“You already agreed to come and you sat through dinner. You treat me so well, love. I’m okay to leave, really. Let’s go.” He stands up and offers his hand to Crowley expectantly. The demon smiles and takes it.

“Well, I’m not going to say no twice.”

After bidding farewell to their host and making their way back to the bookshop, Aziraphale digs around for several bottles of wine and Crowley drapes himself sinuously on the leather couch. Aziraphale returns, taps Crowley’s legs, and the demon lifts them enough so Aziraphale can sit down before plopping them on his lap. Aziraphale pours him a glass and hands it over wordlessly before pouring his own.

“Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” 

Crowley taps the sides of his shoes together absently and Aziraphale is distracted by them again, grabs the toe of one and runs his thumb along the embroidery. He sighs longingly at how beautiful they are and remembers all the similarly beautiful shoes he’s worn in the past. It’s not that he doesn’t love his current everyday footwear: he thinks his brown leather boots are quite stylish. It’s just that men’s fashion can be so drab some eras and he really should break out his more elaborate slippers and pumps from time to time. 

“These really are exquisite, Crowley. I’d compliment the craftsmanship, but I know you just miracled them from nothing. You have such an eye for these things.”

“Yeah, they’re nice. Killer on the feet, though. Absolutely no arch support.”

Aziraphale furrows his eyebrows and sets his glass aside. “Dear, are you in pain? Here, let me help.” He toes off his own simple boots and shifts his legs so they’re resting alongside Crowley’s on the couch. He takes Crowley’s right foot in his hands and slips the shoe off carefully, places it to his side. His fingers glide along the jut of Crowley’s ankle, feels the tendons and the bones flex gently under his hand through fine silk stockings as he smooths his palm over the sides of Crowley’s foot. He moves his thumbs to the flat of his foot and takes just a moment to appreciate the low arch before digging in under the ball. Crowley lets out a low moan and slouches down, pushing his foot further into Aziraphale’s grasp.

He works at the muscles and really takes the time to appreciate this part of Crowley that he hasn’t paid much attention to before. He thought he knew the shape of Crowley's heel, but it's only as he's mapping it with his hands that he learns the particular curve, the solidity of his Achilles' tendon. Of course he knows Crowley’s toes are long and slender like the rest of him, but to feel the bones and joints with his fingertips, all assisted by the glide of his stockings, is an intimacy he hadn't expected. 

Crowley allows it more frequently than he used to, but it’s still rare for him to let Aziraphale tend to and focus solely on his needs, so Aziraphale savors this moment with him. He looks Crowley over: his golden eyes half-lidded in relaxation, his wine glass clutched lazily to his chest as he takes small sips, and his lips parted as he lets out little noises of pleasure that quickly have Aziraphale hardening in his trousers. All of it paints a picture of leisure that he delights in facilitating.

He finishes the massage and gives Crowley one final squeeze before setting his foot down on his thigh, away from his hard length. A smile blooms across Crowley’s face and he opens his eyes.

“Absolutely incredible, angel,” he half-slurs through his relaxation. “Other one?” Aziraphale nods and then sucks in a short inhale of air as Crowley shifts his leg and his foot brushes against his cock. Crowley bares his teeth in an amused grin.

“Oh, someone’s excited.” He flexes his toes and Aziraphale lets out a whimper before grabbing his ankle to still it. 

“Don’t look so pleased. You were making very arousing sounds during the massage and I was already worked up from earlier.” 

Crowley lifts an eyebrow. “Earlier?”

Aziraphale huffs and drops Crowley’s foot in his lap, still precariously close to his erection. “Well, if you must know, it started with the shoes.”

Crowley’s other eyebrow shoots up into his hairline and he laughs. “ _Really_?” His delight is absolutely too much and Aziraphale can’t stand it. “Didn’t take you for a shoe fetishist, Aziraphale. Although given your penchant for fancy footwear, maybe I should have realized--”

Aziraphale pinches his toe and Crowley yelps. “It wasn’t just the _shoes_ , you fiend. It was you… playing footsie with me at dinner! _Teasing_ me and being absolutely inappropriate and-- _fuck_.”

Crowley slides his foot over his hard length and rests it there before pressing down. The gentle pressure is exquisite and he feels himself get harder as he rocks his hips into the arch of Crowley’s foot. 

“Oh dear,” he mutters. “I think that’s actually quite nice.” 

“Yeah?” Crowley’s voice is unexpectedly breathless and when Aziraphale looks at his face, his eyes are blown yellow and his mouth is held taut. Crowley rubs the sole of his foot up and down his cock and he can’t help but to tilt his hips up into the pressure. 

“Please, uh, don’t stop,” he manages to say and Crowley’s expression is hungry.

“Oh, I don’t plan to, angel. This is an interesting development.” He presses the ball of his foot down a little more firmly as he continues his movements along his cock. Aziraphale tilts his head to the side and rests on the back of the couch as his arousal builds in slow, delicious drags under Crowley’s constant attention. 

Crowley’s dress has hiked up a bit and he can see the firm flex of his ankles and calves as he works his sole along his cock. It's obscene - seeing Crowley’s stockinged foot rubbing at the bulge in his trousers like this. But it's not much different than when Crowley pets him like this with his hand except he can see the demon’s look of concentration better from afar, can appreciate the spread of his legs as his left foot dangles off the couch and his right massages his cock. 

Little whimpers and sounds of pleasure fall from his lips and Crowley’s breaths become shorter, shallower as Aziraphale rubs off against his foot. Crowley pulls his foot back slightly and Aziraphale whines at the loss.

“Come on, angel, get your cock out. Want to feel you under my stockings.” Crowley’s voice is gravelly and desperate and Aziraphale can see his erection tenting under his dress. He hastily undoes the buttons at his front flap and when confronted with _more_ buttons underneath, he huffs in frustration and miracles them all undone. He shoves his briefs down and his cock springs up and lays hard, red, and wet against his stomach. 

Crowley’s foot is on him immediately, and he moans at the sensation of the slippery, cool silk against his hot bare cock. Crowley moves with more purpose, pressing harder against his shaft to give Aziraphale the pressure he craves. His cock is so sensitive and with each thrust, he remaps every curve, every inch he just learned under his hands. 

Crowley spreads his toes wide and slips the head of his cock between his big and second toe and then _curls_ them. Aziraphale’s own toes curl in his socks and his precome spills over Crowley. Crowley curls them again and again, manipulating and rubbing up against the glans with his toes. 

“You’re lucky these aren’t authentic - look at what you’re doing to the silk. You’re ruining them.” His neutral, almost dismissive tone is only betrayed by his shaky exhale after. Aziraphale groans deep at his words, feels deliciously dirty about soiling Crowley’s clothes, and digs his nails into the couch, grasping at the blanket underneath him. He’s so close and he can’t help his body as he fucks himself against Crowley’s foot, his precome and the stockings providing a near frictionless glide as his cock thrusts against Crowley’s sole.

“Crowley, I’m--I’m close, please--” 

He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but it seems Crowley has an idea. He lifts his other foot, still clad in the bright red shoe, onto the sofa and presses it lightly against his cock as well. The dual sensation of the hard sole and the soft stocking pinning his cock to his abdomen sends arousal spiraling through his body. Crowley keeps the shoe held still and firm and rubs his clothed foot faster along his shaft. His eyes are wide and bright and eager, and desperate noises fall from Aziraphale’s open mouth.

“Fuck, Aziraphale, come on my shoe. I know you want to - ruin my pretty shoe like you ruined my pretty socks with your come.”

He only has a second to process the mental image before the coil in his gut snaps and he’s coming in thick, hot lines across the shoe, white painting red and dripping onto the stockings. He pants in shallow breaths and can’t help himself, drags his thumb through his come and smears it further into the fabric of the shoe. And then he starts laughing.

It starts as a small giggle and builds into something deep, his shoulders shaking and his head thrown back. He grabs onto Crowley’s ankles to ground himself and then Crowley is laughing too. They look at each other and grin, residual laughter still trembling through their bodies.

“Oh, come here, you obscene, indecent thing.” 

Crowley sits up and falls forward onto his lap, kicking off his ruined shoe in the process. He kisses Aziraphale through a smile and then laughs again, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’m not the one who just came all over a bloody shoe--” His sentence is interrupted by Aziraphale lifting his thigh between Crowley’s so the demon has something to rut against. Crowley groans and grinds his cock down on Aziraphale’s plush thigh with slow, indulgent rolls of his hips. 

Aziraphale slips his hands lower and grabs Crowley’s arse, pressing them closer and feeling Crowley’s hard cock pushing and dragging against his thigh through his dress and Aziraphale’s trousers. Crowley’s arms bracket his head and stroke through his hair as they trade lazy, open kisses and roll their hips together. It’s nice and it’s familiar and Aziraphale wants to pull him so close that there isn’t an atom of space between them.

“Darling,” he murmurs. “Can you get your wings out?”

Crowley unfurls his raven black wings without missing a beat as he undulates his length against Aziraphale. The angel moves his hands until they are splayed against Crowley’s shifting shoulder blades and his fingers are buried in the sensitive feathers at his back. He digs his fingers in firmly and Crowley lets out a cry against his lips.

“Relax your arms, I’ve got you.” Crowley’s arms wrap under Aziraphale’s until he’s lying his full weight on top of him and panting hot breaths against his neck. “Take what you want from me, Crowley,” he whispers into his ear. 

Crowley nods and whimpers and his hips begin to move in earnest, snapping forward and his whole body moving against Aziraphale’s with each thrust. Crowley bends his leg to slot them together closer and his fingers clench in time with Aziraphale’s grip in his wings as he pulls them closer.

“So fucking soft, angel, love when you let me get off like this. Just so warm and plush and makes me feel so desperate for it. Like I can’t wait any longer. ‘M not even out of m’dress.” Aziraphale feels Crowley suck wet, grounding marks into his neck and his hands release their clutch on his wings to travel lower. He grabs onto the jut of his hips through the fabric and encourages the fast pace against him, flexes his thigh to help Crowley along.

“Are you going to muss your dress, Crowley?” Aziraphale whispers it directly against his ear and Crowley _keens_. “I already ruined the rest of your clothes, what’s another piece? Oh, let go, darling, show me how much you want to come in that beautiful dress of yours.”

Crowley cries out and pistons his hips, his cock fucking hard against Aziraphale’s thigh and then he comes with a whine, his movements becoming stuttering and slow. He sinks impossibly further into Aziraphale and nuzzles his face against his cheek.

“Mm, we made a mess,” he says, and Aziraphale can hear the smile in his voice. 

Aziraphale presses his cheek into the touch and runs his hands soothingly along Crowley’s back and his wings. “Just a smidge,” he agrees. 

He tangles their legs together, running his own foot along Crowley’s calf as they touch and kiss each other softly. Eventually Crowley shifts and grimaces. 

“As much as I love when either of us comes in our pants, it does get sticky. You mind if I--?” He waves his hand and Aziraphale nods. 

“Please.”

Crowley miracles away their mess and all of their clothes into something more comfortable and then tucks his wings away. Aziraphale holds him close, wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling amazed at this comfortable intimacy they’re allowed to have now. 

“So, an angel who’s into foot stuff, that’s a new one.” 

Aziraphale groans and tries to push the laughing demon off of him. Crowley winds his limbs around his and holds him strong. He pauses in thought. “Actually, it might not be. Sandalphon looks like he’s pretty dirty.”

Aziraphale blanches and pulls Crowley’s hair to force eye contact. “Do not ever talk about Sandalphon before, during, or after our lovemaking. Never. Never speak of him.” He shudders and Crowley presses a kiss to his chest. 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fair.” He pauses. “Gabriel’s probably into piss.”

“ _NO_.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Most Intimate Footing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27101422) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)




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